


you're my true love, my whole heart (please don't throw that away)

by KHart



Category: Professional Wrestling, WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, F/F, I'll take the blame, I'm Sorry, It's Fair, Kayfabe Compliant, genre typical violence, it's just angst, this is Ash's fault but also it's mostly mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:15:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHart/pseuds/KHart
Summary: A kayfabe-compliant one shot that came to fruition from speculation on how Charlotte will eventually be made to turn heel. If she’s made to turn heel.---Or: Heel Charlotte's return from war.





	you're my true love, my whole heart (please don't throw that away)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Your Guardian Angel" by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.
> 
> My Tumblr is Flairfatale.

Another week. Another day. Another episode of Smackdown.

Another instance of Becky Lynch’s voice echoing throughout the arena. 

“Charlotte!”

Calling for her.

“Charlotte Flair!”

 _Taunting_  her.

“Come on out here, Queenie!”

Charlotte is sick of it. Honestly.

She could scream.

“Where ya at, lass? Not in the mood for a chat?”

But is that gonna stop her from walking out to stand in front of Becky and the crowd? No. Of course not. 

“Ah, there you are. Was wondering if you were going to make it tonight.”

Her fingers close in tight around the mic she’s been handed. Her  _jaw_  clenches tight as she walks slowly towards where Becky stands in the ring, staring at her with cold contempt. 

(She hates how she remembers a time when Becky’s eyes were soft, and calm, and loving. When they looked at her like she was the sun and held the same sort of warmth within them.)

She makes it into the ring, stands almost completely against the ropes, refusing to meet Becky in the middle again.

“What do you want, Becky?” she asks, tired, so impossibly tired of having the knife driven further into her gut every other day.

Becky tilts her head, frowning with mock confusion and sympathy.

“Aw,” she exclaims. “Something the matter, your Majesty? Heavy is the head that wore the crown?”

Charlotte just continues to look at her. She doesn’t have anything to say. 

(If it was anyone else in front of her, she would. She knows she would. But even in her most shattered and unstable state, taunting Becky, the woman she would still give her soul for, feels wrong.)

“It’s okay, then, I’ll talk until you can find the cat and get your tongue back.” Becky flashes a smirk, one that’s _close_ to being familiar but just isn’t. “I really just wanted to ask how you were doing. You know, see if you were finding a new place to sit, seeing as your throne is occupied now and all.”

Becky’s eyes glint as Charlotte continues to stand there and take the blows without fighting back.

“Or, you know, maybe you don’t want to sit. Maybe you’d like to stand.” Becky gestures at her. “Which is fine, as long as it’s not _in the way_. And I know you have a problem with that, lass, but I believe anyone can overcome anything, so I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Charlotte finally lets her own smirk ghost across her lips, faintly amused but without any real mirth.

“Great,” she says, still with an almost terrifying calm. “That’s great. Are you done?”

Becky lifts her hand as if to give her the floor, still with that infuriating air of smugness about her.

Charlotte waits a few seconds. Her jaw ticks about three times.

“You can’t keep calling me out here,” she finally says. “It’s getting a little old.”

Becky chuckles lowly, not loud enough for anyone but Charlotte to actually hear.

“Oh, I think I can,” she retorts. “Because, you see, _I’m_ the champ now, and the champ can do whatever she wants.” 

Charlotte rolls her eyes.

“Look, you’ve got what you want now, Becky, alright? Just _leave it_. You hate me?” She manages to shrug under the heaviness on her shoulders. “Okay. I get it. The WWE _Universe_ gets it. We _all_ get it. It’s time to move on. It’s time to be done.”

This time Becky’s laugh is louder. It’s colder. Still merciless.

“Oh, but you see it’s not just that I hate you now, Charlotte,” she says. “ _No_ , it’s that I never loved you to  _begin_   _with_.”

The sudden ringing within Charlotte’s ears almost drowns out the crowd’s reaction. _Almost_.

A low rumble rolls through the building. The knife twists further.

And Charlotte knows that it’s not true. She knows that the statement is Becky—this new Becky—trying to justify her actions to the old Becky— _her_   _Becky_ —that’s still sitting somewhere deep down within her. 

She knows it’s a lie. Because there were too many dark nights and early mornings of quiet whispering and tender touches for it to have been fake. There were too many ‘ _I miss you_ ’ texts and ‘ _I just haven’t heard your voice in a while_ ’ phone calls.

There was so much, too much, sharing of real feelings, real fears, real _dreams_ , for it to have been fake.

There were too many hugs from behind, too many brushes of hair, too many times where their pinkies linked instinctively.

There was protectiveness, and jealousy, and fondness. There was comfort, and stability, and strength.

There was nothing that could stop them, once upon a time.

So, Charlotte _knows_ it’s a lie. Charlotte knows that the morality within Becky isn’t dead, and, so, this Becky, that’s so cruel and calculating, is making excuses to try to appease that voice in the back of her head, that’s so disappointed and sad.

(Charlotte knows from experience.)

But it still hurts like a _bitch_. Because even if _Charlotte_ knows Becky is lying, _Becky_ doesn’t know it. Not right now, at least.

And since she doesn’t know it, the woman’s next smirk is almost a _grin_ because of how pleased she is to have caused her pain.

But Charlotte’s expression remains stoic, which is a feat in and of itself.

“And, really, _that’s_ what I wanted you to know,” Becky says then. “And, sure, I _could’ve_ gotten the message to you in some other way, but I wanted it to be out here, in front of the people and the cameras, so that the look on your face will forever be immortalized.”

She takes a few steps forward, leans in closer just for the purpose of further humiliation.

“ _Now_ , we’re done. _Now_ , I’m done _with you_.”

She drops the mic and raises the belt above her head. Charlotte lifts her chin a little but says nothing else.

When Becky bumps harshly into her shoulder as she walks past, Charlotte takes that too.

But she can’t let Becky walk away. Not this time. Not when she still has Charlotte’s heart  _and_  the upper hand. 

She’s only able to have one. It’s not fair for her to have both.

Because if Charlotte doesn’t have Becky, then she has to have _something_. And since she’d relinquished her hold on her heart far too long ago to ever expect to get it back now, the upper hand is what it’ll have to be for her.

So, she waits until Becky is at the ropes, fully prepared to leave, and then she lands a brutal blow to the back of her head, one that’s unexpected but really isn’t.

One that sends Becky crumpling to the mat immediately.

The belt slips from her grip as she brings her hands up, to instead clutch at the front of her neck and gasp for the air that her collision with the top rope stole from her. She only has about two seconds of reprieve, because then Charlotte kneels down right beside her. She connects elbow after elbow after elbow with whatever parts of Becky’s face the woman can’t block her from.

Eventually, Becky manages to flip herself over and roll herself out of the ring. She manages to stumble away some, reeling and rocked, but Charlotte follows smoothly, swiftly, and she has her hands on her in the next instant.

She grips the fabric of the leather jacket she’d bought Becky for one of her birthdays, and she uses it as leverage to increase the force with which she throws the woman into the steel steps.

The boos of the crowd can’t reach her. She’s too zoned in.

Her chest is heaving now, her heart is aching, her stomach is clenching.

Watching Becky writhe on the ground in agony, clutching at her shoulder, makes Charlotte want to throw up.

But it’s a feeling she’s used to now. And her ability to pull herself together enough to get through the day is a well-honed one.

(Granted, the tools she has to help her _have_ diminished greatly over time.

Because the first time, it was super glue that she’d used to piece herself back together. And it had felt as if she was almost as good as new.

But then, the second time, it was regular glue. And she hadn’t felt as new, but she’d felt sturdy enough to keep going.

And now, _now_ , she’s barely being held together by staples and tape, and her hands are bleeding from how many times she’s tried to pick up the shards of her heart and put them back in place.

So, she can practically hear the commentary team now.

_“Charlotte Flair’s come undone! She’s unhinged! Unglued!”_

And maybe it’s true, but that’s not going to stop her. She’s got too much practice in.)

So, she stalks over to pull Becky back up. 

The fighting fist that comes up to catch her across the right side of her jaw surprises her a little, but it doesn’t come close to incapacitating her.

She lands a knee directly in the center of Becky’s abdomen, and that fight dissipates again.

“Is this what you wanted?” she finds herself asking abruptly, through a hoarse throat. “It is, right?” She uses her strength to propel Becky into the barricade this time. “You wanted me to fight back, right?” Becky lies limp on the ground, breathing hard. “It wasn’t all talk, right? You didn’t think I’d let you be my weak spot forever, did you?”

Charlotte guides Becky back into the ring, follows her in, but then creates some distance between them again.

For a few seconds, she just looks at the limp body of the person that was her best friend, her love, her Becks.

And then she’s closing that distance again.

She kneels down at Becky’s side once more, and then she grabs a handful of Becky’s hair and pulls her head back, so that the woman has to look into her eyes as she leans in close. 

“I would’ve done _anything_ for you,” she says. “I would’ve fought by your side forever. Championship or not.”

Becky glares at her, even through her pain.

Charlotte scoffs before releasing her grip roughly.

She stands and turns away, her hands on her hips as she casts her eyes out to the WWE Universe for the first time since she appeared earlier.

A chorus of boos greets her sudden attention, but she remains unfazed.

The sound of shuffling behind her is what shifts her focus.

She glances back halfway to see Becky lifting herself into one of the corners so that she can lean against the bottom turnbuckle, with her elbows resting atop the bottom rope and her fingers weakly holding to her face.

Charlotte looks at her with an impassive expression on her face. She sees red start to seep through to the front of Becky’s knuckles, from her nose, and that gives her slight pause.

Because there was a time when she never would’ve even _dreamed_ of hurting Becky in any capacity, let alone so badly, and that time was really only earlier on in the day, even just a few minutes before Smackdown started.

She swallows some.

The familiar coldness of regret starts to build up in her throat, but it’s really not so much for what she’s just done. 

No. It’s mostly for everything she did _before,_ that led Becky to being this person… That led Becky to resenting her so strongly that she’d use the things Charlotte told her in confidence against her.

If there’s _anything_ Charlotte regrets the most, it’s driving away the person who means the most to her. And if there’s _anything_ Charlotte will never forgive herself for, it’s making Becky lose that shining sense of hope that had always persevered through the dark.

If there’s only _one_ _thing_ that Charlotte _knows_ , out of everything else, it’s that all of it is mostly her fault. 

So, she lets out a sigh, and her shoulders deflate with it, as that tiredness comes back to weigh down her bones and limbs again.

She wipes a hand across her face and meets Becky’s gaze.

They share a moment, one that’s more like what they’re used to. Charlotte weakens her mask, she makes it more transparent on purpose, just so that Becky can see how _exhausted_ she is by it all, and how truly sorry she is for what she’s done.

It takes a second, but Becky’s face turns less hostile, calmer now. And it’s somehow enough for Charlotte. It’s not closure, no, but it’s close enough.

So, she nods once. 

Then she walks over and takes the fallen championship belt into her hands, not to raise it or marvel at it or even take it back as a statement, but to give it one last, good look before laying it across the front of one of Becky’s shoulders, where it belongs.

“I hope your reign lasts forever, champ,” she says, her hand lingering for a split second at the nape of Becky’s neck, the last gentle touch she’ll ever get to give the woman. “You deserve it.”

Becky watches her from underneath heavy eyelids. She doesn’t have the energy to lash out or retaliate in the moment—and Charlotte’s not sure she even wants to anymore—so she stays in her position, with her hand still covering her bloody nose.

Charlotte only lets another brief silence settle between them before she draws away again, back into herself. 

She exits the ring with her head held high.

The noise of everyone around her is drowned out by the sound of her soft side—the side she’d created for Becky—screaming defiantly in her ears, begging with her to stop suddenly pushing it down, to stop pushing it where no one will be able to reach. Not even herself and certainly not even Becky.

She ignores it, and she doesn’t turn back. She doesn’t need to. The sight of the scene will forever be ingrained in her memory.

It will keep her up at night, she knows, but something in her switches. Those iron gates around her heart clamp back down, they weld themselves shut.

No one will ever get through them again. Not even herself. And not even Becky. Not again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (This is mostly NOT my fault, because I didn’t really think of the concept, I only expanded on it. (ok it's my fault I'll own up to it.) Please don’t yell at me. I’m (sorta) sorry.)
> 
> My Tumblr is Flairfatale :)


End file.
